


breakfast rush

by knifechild



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Coming Out, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7336660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifechild/pseuds/knifechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Shaw is a struggling 17 year-old who is having a hard time coping with his sexuality, all the while having to hide it from his father- who happens to be his biggest role model and only parental figure in his life. Not to mention having to juggle school and a recently earned part-time job at a bustling, head-ache inducing coffee joint, where he meets Blake Anderson; a fragile-yet somewhat aggressive and troubled soul who just so happens to floor Miles instantly, which causes problems for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaa so!! hello!! this is going to be a multi-chaptered thingy, i dont know for how long but yeah! it features mine and tumblr user Unlocklist's OCs!! Miles, Rio & Jae-Sun belong to her!! everyone else featured is mine!!!

Since he was old enough to handle jackets with pockets, money has always been a bit of a problem for Miles.

It was never anything big, like homelessness or starvation; it was always small, little things; not having enough nickels for ice cream, or having to miss buying the special edition comic book. Miles had never been bothered by this before, he always thought saving up made him feel noble, in some ways. A missing popsicle stick in the (nearly empty) fridge had never measured up to the pride and affection his father had given him. A missing book on the worn out redwood shelf that hangs empty in the blank walls of his bedroom is nothing when compared to the Chinese take out that he has oh-so helped to pay for.

As he got older, it turned into slightly bigger things; skipping out on buying new sneakers, and accepting more hand-me-downs than turning them down. Around 15 he has learned what independence means; self-folded bedsheets on a dusty 4 in the morning sunrise, lone walks to the pharmacy along the rough rock-scattered pavement that stretches too wide for the horizon to reach, and numb forgotten nights drowned in prescription pills and uplifted by his more-personal-than-devilish personal demons - and no, he can’t help but to forget that independence is  _ not  _ wanting someone of the same gender to be pressed against you, hip-to-hip; it is not too-much-staring-to-be-lingering on your best friend as he takes you out to platonic dinner; and it is  _ certainly  _ not hiding within his room - locked doors included - on a wet summer day, touching your lips repeatedly when finding out they have touched another’s more familiar - masculine - and defined cheekbones.

Again, Miles never minded any of this, not much, at least.

Because Miles Shaw is not poor, and his dad’s job is getting them both by just fine (he tries to convince himself that his mom leaving has nothing to do with this) and at around 17 he is learning that he will be fine. That he will go to a good university, have a good paying job and everything will be fine.

Yet, clearly, his dad had thought otherwise. Clearly, he wanted his son to start looking for a part-time job.

“It’ll be good for you,” Miles’ dad had said over the soft hum of the kitchen stove. “shows your independence, plus it’ll look good on your resume.” A short noise had been caught in Miles’ throat, indicating his distaste regarding his dad’s decision. “Come on, sport,” Dad had teasingly ruffled his hair with a wide, oil-greased palm as he light-heartedly elbowed the back of his son’s neck, “just for a month or two. Then you don’t need to do it ever again.”

Miles had bitterly thought by then,  _ until I reach twenty that is. _

Despite his internal protesting, lanky legs have found themselves in a blank, pale building a couple of days later. Some walls are splattered unceremoniously with mismatched colors of bright paint; as he observes further, blues and yellows seemed to become a common theme  The small jingle of a bell attached to the top of a glass door startles him, jumping lightly on his feet.

The bright smile Rio has quickly put on - all shiny white teeth and softly crinkled eyes, has quickly dissipated as his vision settles upon a disheveled Miles. Always an open book,  an assortment of expressions flash briefly on the features of Rio’s jaw, lips and eyes; they oft-ranged between intense aggression, mild confusion and dissolving into deadpanned carelessness, frequently in this order. “I already told you no.”

Pale elbows press clumsily on a cold countertop. Finally, a decision to roll up sleeves was quickly falling into Miles’ favor; the steel surface is cold against his warm arms. “Come on, can’t you talk to your boss or something?” Miles begs, before a spoonful of caramel flavored gelato was promptly shoved into his mouth.

Rio boringly exclaims, “I told you, man, all our spots are filled.” He twirled around a colorful, dainty plastic spoon with blank amusement, huffing out a long breath. It is his shift now, but the mall isn’t very popular on Monday mornings…

Hell, Rio  _ almost  _ wonders why.

Chewing gently on the plastic, Miles licks his lips and scowled. “Bullshit,” adjusting his right elbow onto the counter so he could rest his heat-flushed cheek against the wall of his palm, he waves an accusatory finger with the other, “I can see one spot that needs to be filled right now.”

By then, Rio has leaned forward almost dangerously close, his torso well over the counter by now. He has on some-sort of mischievous smirk, all thin and long. Miles can conclude that Rio’s lips seem very soft and tempting, even. His eyes are glistening something troubling in the low, yellow light of the room, as he mirrors Miles’ form, curtly whispering. “Seeing me? I am quite flattered.”

Miles could feel his battered heart in his throat, fingers gripping the counter tightly for dear life (what was left of it, at least) for a slight moment, before uncurling and promptly shoving broader and tougher shoulders, hissing a “Fuck you, man!”

“Christ,” Rio almost  _ wheezes _ , squeezing out short laughs, much to Miles’ silent protest. With dignity - or what is left of it, anyway - Miles tries to say something, yet all that comes out is nothing and instead a tough fist connecting too softly with a tan arm. Rio bellows again “You are so easy to mess with. Listen,” Straightening himself out, Rio walks ‘round the corner and leans against it, pressing a jacket-tied hip to steel. Suddenly conscious of being so close to another person, he adjusts the tip of his baseball cap. “Go ‘round the street - you know, close to the white picket fence you call your ‘house’? There’s that new cafe that’s booming up right now. I’m sure they need  _ someone  _ as hopelessly desperate as you are.”

Crossing his arms and turning to face Rio, Miles wrinkles his nose,  and complained, “I don’t even like coffee.”

“Did you even try it?”

“Cream, sugar, milk. I’ve tried it all. Still too bland and bitter for my taste.”

Rio throws his hands up in an overly-dramatic fashion, along with a couple of rolled eyes and tasteful, kiddish tension being thrown Miles’ way. “Hopeless. You are hopeless.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aah!! sorry this is so late!! its still continuing i swear... this chapter was supposed to be longer but (shrugs!!!!!! really hard!!!) enjoy!! miles, rio & jae belong to unlocklist on tumblr!!! her ocs are Good.

“Can you please stop changing the radio station every two seconds?”

“Sorry.” Wincing, Miles turns to reach for the far-away radio, dialing it back to its original station - Jesus, who the hell has dial radios now a days?

“It’s fine,” It isn’t, Miles can conclude - his coworker has been chewing on her polished, thin manicured nails for around thirty minutes or so.

The cafe is empty, mostly, save for a few of adult couples in the back and a couple of local-culture infused teenagers occupying a small table, here and there. The chipped brown paint and dusty crooked plant portraits are strangely attracting to all, framed in a tiny round building built under crisp spring warmth. The clock behind him spins it’s hands agonizingly slow, 9:23 read mockingly and offensively.  

The job is easy, almost. He’s already been payed once. A simple, behind the cashier work that he’s seen a couple of his friends done at local groceries - the small, compact kind where everything is nestled and crammed together and overly priced more than what it’s actually worth. The small amounts of math, luckily, doesn’t make his head swim.

Hana, however, does.

Miles believes that she  _ is  _ a nice girl; happy to always help and she’s surprisingly hard-working. Her voice is almost always soft, too quiet in other times. She handles the crowd better than Miles could even dream of doing, and so he lets her take the counter for as much time as she is able to, his needs often found in crouching besides the metal toaster.  Her intentions are good, but by god is she annoying.  _ Who knew that Wimbledon 2008 Women’s Single star Venus Williams had a just as amazing younger sister? _

Her front tooth is smeared lightly with bold pasty red lipstick, but otherwise it sticks to her well. Pressing a strand of pink behind her ear, Hana begins to smile and tilts her head at the approach of a stranger; his hair is colored fawn and pulled back messily with a dark, plain hairband. They’re familiar with each-other, is something Miles can guess from his on-off glances. They talk animatedly of something Miles could not be bothered to hear about, - maybe something about torn tennis shoes and worn out rackets, except perhaps it’s not that because the strangers delicate face has soft lips pulling back in the most awe-struck smile Miles has seen in awhile, and Miles has to think a bit harder than usual if sports equipment is really such a good reason to be smiling about. In turn, his cheeks come off less pale and more of a little bright red. He thinks, that if anyone had bothered to ask, he would probably just say that the sweltering uniform and heat were getting to him, or that Hana had somehow - miraculously, really preferred not to elaborate on that - managed to convince him to try some-sort of new blush that is simply impossible to remove from his cheekbones.

Really, he was hoping that explanation number 2 wouldn’t be needed much. If not, at all.

They talk, and talk, until Hana laughs loudly at something he’s said and she hooks her arms around his shoulders, dragging him to the counter. He looks almost... shy, and avoids eye contact all costs. “Blake, Miles. Miles, Blake.” Hana seems to be enthusiastic, at the least, as she introduces them to each other. Miles’ heart stutters, just a bit, and he bites back a frown.  _ Make a good first impression  _ is what he’s saying to himself, but Blake seems… disinterested. They exchanged polite hellos - Miles’ being more expressive whilst Blake is noticeably more quiet. He fiddled his thumbs nervously.

“Hey, can you - like, take his order?”  Hana almost begs. Almost. She’s already running off before he can say no, because,  _ wow,  _ he really doesn’t want to be taking this cute guy’s order. He feels so… sinful. Strangely so, since he hasn’t even done anything wrong (but he knows, he knows.)

Blake orders something that he thinks only Miles’ grandpa would order; black, no sugar, and no ice. He seems to stumble as he fishes out his pocket for change, and basically throws his money at him. Miles is actually relieved that Blake left the counter.

“Wow… Did you bore him off already?” Hana pokes, whether out of fun or curiosity, Miles doesn’t care and waves her off dismissively, because he’s staring off at Blake, who scrunches up his nose and squirms as he sips at his achingly hot, fresh roasted cup of coffee. It leaves a sort of itchy tinge at his chest.

_ Crush. Crush. Oh for fucks sake, I’ve got a crush on a guy I just met. _

* * *

Rio laughs at him first, and yeah sure, the situation is laughable at best. Not full out crying over it. He doesn’t apologize, even when the dick is done hunching over his counter and slamming his fists besides the register. Miles takes a deep breath, and crosses his arms together over his chest. Tightly. “Are you done?”

“Well, that depends,” Rio wheezes, wiping away tears from the corner of his eyes. He has a loopy smile on his face, the one people have when they laugh way too much. Miles has an overwhelming urge to punch it off his (beautiful) lips. With a fist. And not his own lips. “Are  _ you _ done?”

“Uh, no?”

“Then can I laugh it off again for another couple of minutes?”

“What? No! Rio,” Something frustrating bubbles up in Miles’ throat, and he sighs it out instead, lips sticking out in a pout. “I’m here for advice, not for you to laugh in my face.” He taps his finger on his forearm nervously. He’s fucking stuck in a horrible, sticky ditch and he’s honestly now sure if he wants to even find his way out.

  
That seriously can’t be healthy. Right? It’s not like he’s spent  _ years  _ staying up, laying on his bed restlessly wondering if it’s healthy to like other guys; to  _ want _ other guys. It has to be not-healthy. Has to.

“Uh, advice? For?” Rio nearly laughs again. Nobody needs his advice; people do whatever the fuck they wanted. He doesn’t understand the concept of the word. It’s another laughable moment, but he holds his breath because, okay, he’s  _ kind of  _ curious why Miles is telling him all this in the first place. They’re not tight, or close. They’re  _ okay.  _ Rio likes teasing him, likes poking fun, but he’s not exactly the listening type. That side of him is only reserved for a particular person.

“For, for this!” Miles basically explodes, waving his arms spastically in no direction in particular. “All of this! Like, what the fuck do I do? What the fuck  _ should  _ I do? I don’t like him!”

“You told me like, eight minutes ago, that you have a crush on him.”

Miles is biting his lip and he groans, because, god, he hates  _ all  _ of this. “I know! I know. Like - fuck, aren’t you with someone?”   


Rio scoffs, then coughs, then he finally stutters out a choked noise that resembles a ‘no, are you crazy?’ when he tries to speak. He seems to be on the verge of tears,  _ again. _

“I’m serious, you dick!”

“Who- oh my god, who do you think I’m even with? Seriously! That’s the funniest shit I’ve heard in a long-”

The door to the stuffy gelato shop opens with a high-pitched ding of the bell.

It’s him; brown spectacles and pink-white shirt with also brown shorts.  “Hey, Rio!” He calls out with an enthusiastic yell.

He stares, just a bit, before pointing. “Him,” Miles says simply, whispers it actually, as the guy walks up to them, waving. “I thought you were hooked up with him.”

Rio flushes, then feels his whole fucking face sweating and heating up; the look is fitting for Rio, Miles can conclude. It brings a sour, almost evil smile to his face. Rio’s heart feels like he ran twenty whole laps around the town. He gulps, painfully, before spitting out a “You’re leaving.”

The guy only watches as Rio pushes out a playful Miles, who seems to be indulging himself into the moment. “Have a nice date!” He barely shouts before being shoved out of the store.

“Date?”

  
“Shut up, Jae. We’re just going to dance.” The tips of Rio’s ears are ruddy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short one.

Blake is a fond believer that good things will happen to good people.

It’s a belief that starts out young; naive and innocent. Things that he once was as a child. He looked at the world with goldfish eyes and a flood of white curiosity. It only makes sense, after all. Karma is a logical concept to a 7 year old.

It keeps on going even when he's 8, and decides that he hates Aaron. Hate is a big word for a small 8 year old's tongue.

It keeps on going even when he's 11, and it's the time where his parents stop living in the same house. He remembers his father packing a larger, square suitcase, that seems even larger in his strong and firm hands.

By the time he turns 17, Blake Anderson has long since decided that he is not a good person, because good things do not happen to him and good things will never happen to him. Not that he minds it, actually. He doesnt really think he deserves anything good, anyways.

"You're no fun, are you?" Hana said, on a particular day when they are 13. So young and bold then.

Blake said, "Why do you say that?"  
Hana started to think, "Because you don't like yourself. What kind of person is that?"

"Maybe I'm not a person."

"Maybe," Hana said. "You act like one, though. A very sensitive one."

Blake understands that his friendship with Hana is temporary, in some way. It's built on stupid and foolish vows that only children would make. "I'll be your friend and teach you how to have fun."

"You can't teach somebody to have fun."

Hana said, "You don't know that." She sounded so determined, sweet, silly Hana. "You don't know anything. You dont have friends. I'll be your first." They are a not children now, and Blake doesn't understand him and her anymore.

Neither does Hana. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa i wrote this one in the plane lmao....... i might edit it later ya?
> 
> miles & rio belong to unlocklist on tumblr!

Miles wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, and his father believes him.

"I woke up on the wrong side of the bed," He says, when his father asks him why he hides his eyes in his hands. His father just nods, like he understands. Like he understands how it happens almost every other day of the week.

Miles shuts his mouth more often today - he does not stop by the mall to visit Rio, does not give himself the chance to let Rio talk his head to death (he knows it's possible, he could feel it.)

Today is an exceptionally slow day. Hana as usual, seems to bother him by bombarding him with personal questions. The girl knows no boundaries regarding personal space. Apparently.

"Oh, I love this song!" Hana chirps, dialing the volume up as _Price Tag_ by Jessie J comes on. Miles groans as she mouths to the lyrics, elbowing him.

Posing, Hana directs the spotlight to Miles. To his rising embarrassment. God, why is she so embarrassing? _Why is everybody so serious? Acting so damn mysterious._

Oh no. Nope, she is not bringing him into this broadway musical mess. Slapping her hand away from himself, Miles grumbled, "We're not getting paid to sing, you know." Hana shushes him with a manicured finger, much to Miles' protest.

 _Its not about the money, money, money._ Hana cocks her hips towards him, laughing as he bumps with the counter. _We don't need your money, money, money._

a few minutes after Hana's surprisingly good vocal show, Miles absolutely refuses to show up at the counter with her.

"I'm staying back here."  
"You're making a scene."  
"And you weren't?"

Hana laughs, loudly. "You're not getting paid to be pouty, Shaw."

Stomping to the front from the kitchen, Miles wonders how she know's his last name.

* * *

 

Blake comes in a bit later into the day, as Miles dries out washed cups with a dry, ragged towel. His hair and heart seem frazzled, mouth in a frown.

"I need Hana. Now."

Hana comes out with a warm smile and light heart. It changes to dull and heavy as she sees him.

"Hey." She smiles, again. Tries to. "Wanna order something?" He doesn't want to. She's making up for time.

"Can you take me home? I don't want to go home alone tonight." Miles watches their exchange with interest. He agrees when Hana asks him to cover her shift for her, as she takes off her apron and hat.

Blake gives a sad smile to him, one that Miles feels like he's compelled to return, even if he doesn't know why. He doesnt have a chance to ask why Blake is apologizing, as he walks out, hand in hand with Hana.


End file.
